


Entre Nous

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, F/M, Mizumono Spoilers, in FRANCE!, not really angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months on the run in France have been less on the run and more at the beach. He hid well, though, he hid so well.<br/>Not well enough.</p><p>Not well enough that she didn't find him.<br/>Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entre Nous

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Hannibal comes home one day in France to find Alana in his house.  
> I was not allowed to make it sad.
> 
> Different continuity, different (fiercer) Alana, different escape, no window falling but a lot of bleeding for our darling queen in that final scrap.
> 
> This Alana has teeth.

Something’s not…right.

The house feels slightly…off. Changed, like the airflow is being blocked. The windows are open over the coast of Brittany, the sounds of the sea calm and rhythmic. The French doors— _lord_  he hates that he has French doors in  _France_. Shouldn’t they just be called  _doors_ here?—are open on the back deck, fair white curtains rippling in the slow breeze. The whole space is how he left it—white, crisp, and stunningly modern, straying from his usual tastes with tall single-pane windows, cleanly edged furniture, and bright open rooms with many walkways and few doors. But now it feel occupied. Bedelia has gone somewhere for the afternoon and he has been at the beach since ten, leaving…no one. Or, it should have left no one.

He stays suspicious of this gut instinct as he navigates to the kitchen, brushing his feet at the door to avoid tracking sand. His chapel is white and steel finished in black, the island in the middle and her neighboring countertops a coal-dark granite flecked gold. It’s all clean and free of fingertips, but this doesn’t reassure him. The only marks on the otherwise-pristine white tiles are from his sand-dusted feet.

He needs to shower the ocean off his skin; he can feel it begin to itch. His love-hate relationship with the sea and her gifts never ceases to cause his complexion irritation. He opens the door to his bedroom and wanders to the closet for a clean shirt and pants. He won’t bother with a suit, not in this beautiful summer. But, oh these towels are freshly laundered and smell of cotton and nostalgia.

He turns in the direction of the master bath and is interrupted by an  _ahem._ _  
_

He swings around to the bed, realizing too late that he’d been subconsciously blocking out the other person in the house. The one there was  _no way he could have missed since the bed is directly in front of the door_. He stops, eyes widening for a split-second in surprise and confusion. They return to normal size, though the feelings don’t, leaving him bewildered and half-nude before a fully-clothed, unbelievably furious woman.

"Good afternoon, Alana."

Her frown turns into a feral snarl, baring her teeth like a threatened hound. “It’s not good, Hannibal.”

He clears his throat and moves to stand with his back to the door, clothing items still slung around his forearms. “Is there something I can…do?” He’s not sure why she’s here; he left her in a bloody mess on his hall floor months ago, unconscious and bleeding out from the knife wounds. He hadn’t expected her to put up such a fight and certainly hadn’t expected her to slice him deeply across the chest—he could still feel the scar tissue scream when he moved the wrong way. Such a feisty little creature, Dr. Bloom.

"Yeah, there is. You can start by telling me what the hell is going on."

"It’s a little after one in the afternoon on the northern coast of France, you’re sitting on my bed, and I am about to shower."

"Don’t be a smartass."

"I’m on the run, if that weren’t obvious—"

"In the lap of luxury."

"—and if you blow my cover, I’m going to take action. I don’t want to give you anymore scars, my dear."

"I’m not your  _dear_. You haven’t made an effort to contact me in six months. I’m not your anything, you’re not my anything.”

He watches the fine whisper of a lie flit across her face with the last sentence. She’s made such an effort to find him that this isn’t nothing. He isn’t nothing to her.

This is important.

"How long have you been searching?" He’s curious about that bloodhound nose of hers. Unblinded, the woman was a genius in understanding the human mind, how it acts, why it acts. How long has she been studying him?

"Six weeks, tops. I was down to France or Italy after week one. Locating this place was the biggest challenge. Your eyes are memorable, Dr. Lecter."

Ouch, that was impersonal. But her speed was impeccable. He won’t admit it, but he’s missed his little bloodhound. She kept the game interesting. She sniffed him out, she came to the final showdown armed, gun in her hands, blade on her hip. She came out better than the others, less damaged.

"So why haven’t you called?"

"To be frank, I was afraid you’d come to kill me."

She opens her arms and rolls her shoulders up in an aggressive gesture. “I was going to find you eventually.”

"You’ve changed."

She tilts her head in a swaying, snakelike motion, pulling her lips back on those white, sharp teeth, eyes pointed and boring. She spits poison at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

It’s… _attractive_ , the way she’s holding herself, the absolute  _power_  behind her words, the glint of bloodlust in her hurricane blue eyes. She rises to her feet, stilettos taller and fiercer than anything he’s seen her wear, lifting her eyes to his jaw. She’s curled like a cobra, holding some massive strength coiled in her tiny bones.

"Show me your scars."

He has no idea why he says this. He’s unarmed and she’s got a long dagger in her right hand, the left drawing a long thin (probably hollow) needle from her sleeve. His tactics should be better.

But, surprisingly, she’s taken aback. “ _What?_ ”

"Your scars. I want to see my brushstrokes."

"You’re this close to—I— _aren’t you sleeping with your psychiatrist?_ ”

"I don’t see how that could possibly be important, but the answer is no, past, present, and future."

"It matters because they’re—I’d have to—oh my god, you’re not getting the upper hand. You carved me up like a Christmas ham, Hannibal, and I’m not going to be your Santa Claus."

She doesn’t want him  _cheating_. She’s about to maim him and she’s worried she might cause him to  _cheat_. Every time he thinks he has this woman figured out—

Alana sighs, puts the blade between her carnivore’s teeth, and strips the buttons from her blouse, making vulnerable her pale skin. A long thin thread of moonlight licks from just above her right breast to just above her navel. Another tiger’s stripe lines the left side of her ribcage. The stitching is so much more beautiful than his own.

She slaps his hand away, glaring. “You can’t touch. You said look, not touch. I’m not a goddamn Juliet statue.”

"Once more, my love?"

"I’m not your love."

"Yes, you are. You’ve been my love since day one. My purest, most truthful love. And I’d prefer we didn’t end this romance with one dead party."

“ _You tried to kill me_.”

"I tried to disarm you out of necessity."

"You are romanticizing the permanent scarring of my body, major bloodloss, and an extremely frightening, extremely dangerous hospital trip.  _Don’t_.”

It’s too late; he’s been watching her, he’s found the pressure point. “You still love me.”

"I—" She rolls her eyes and runs a hand through her hair. "Yes? That’s the entire issue with unconditional love? I thought I’d broken from you a week before the fight. I thought I’d broken from you as I recovered for so many months. I can’t stop falling at your door."

He takes her in, this strange woman, this new woman. She stands before him uncovered and exposed, the front of her body naked save for a bra. She’s armed and deadly, but slightly confused and wavering. She’s found a voice now, a low ferocious roar to go with her new claws. A black widow, a poison woman. A lioness fit to stand beside her king.

"Stay with me."

She draws back for a split second before she’s squaring her shoulders again, threatening and serious. “Here in France with you.”

"Yes, stay with me."

"I can’t—"

"Six months ago Alana couldn’t, present Alana can. You’ve blossomed during the time I was gone."

"You expect me to believe you won’t try to kill me?"

"I’ll prove to you I wouldn’t, I couldn’t."

"Show me."

He’s on her like hounds on a scent. She fits in his hands exactly how he remembers, but she tastes sharper, more alluring. Her mouth is warm, so warm, and he’s uncovering so many emotions buried under her tongue. Lord in heaven did her love this woman— _does_  he love this woman, this tigress, this reincarnated Amazon. She’s biting his lips and scratching down his back, sensations that are new and incredibly welcome.

"I’m still armed," she whispers on his lips. "Do you still trust me?"

"Strangely, yes." He lifts her by the hips and tosses her back onto the bed. "I trust you not to kill me, Dr. Bloom."

"And I trust you not to hurt me, Dr. Lecter."

"No more than you ask, you mean."

She smiles for the first time since being there, extending her hands to pull him down on top of her. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

"So much you wanted to eat me up tonight?" he chuckles into her neck.

"Don’t put cannibal puns in my mouth."

"Only if you promise not to play with your food."

He doesn’t let her make that promise, too hungry for her lips, her touch, her mouth. He needs to taste every inch of her before he’s satisfied again. It had been so long, he’d forgotten how strongly he felt—had  _hidden_  how strongly he felt, for the good of his psyche. But now,  _now_ he was famished. _  
_

"Wait, wait." She pushes his chest up and he growls, settling onto his elbows. "What about blondie?"

"Dr. du Maurier? Of no consequence."

"No consequence? The door is open and you’re half-naked on top of your half-naked ex-girlfriend—current girlfriend? Are we dating again?—"

"—we weren’t really dating in the first place—"

"—who is still armed to the teeth and currently jealous as all hell that you’ve been cohabiting with another woman for half a year. Is this the best idea?"

"…No."

"Also you’re sticky with salt water and it’s going to  _hurt_.”

"I  _was_  planning on taking a shower.”

"She won’t come find you in the bathroom, will she?"

"Of course not, that would be terribly rude."

"Can  _I_  come find you in the bathroom?”

He grins, elated that they’re falling so quickly into step, like their matching quicksilver streaks aren’t of malice but of desperation (which is false, but he’d like to think better of his actions), like they’re still the same masks they wore months ago, but at the same time open to one another about their natures.

"If you so want, you may join me in the shower, and I shall not consider it rude."


End file.
